


In Fault

by leanstein



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-28
Updated: 2011-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leanstein/pseuds/leanstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks, somehow— that what she feels is not enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Fault

_No one is worse, for knowing the worst of themselves._

\- Proverb

 

\-----

_She thinks, somehow— that what she feels is not enough._

\-----

The sky starts to gray; the cool air lingering above and beyond. The stench of death infuses itself-- _on, inside, everywhere_ \-- her skin. She is cold, so very, very cold.

She looks up, up into the heavens.

“Enterprise, one to beam up.”

\-----

_They've done this before— this dance for two; so delicate, so reverent. A movement, a shift. In tune, but not on time. Maneuvering their way in between; skirting around the edges of each other. The hum of the engines a melody to dance to, and yet a constant reminder of the infinite possibilities of how this (all of this) could end. And yet, with the vastness of space and darkness and the unknown and the whole universe beneath their feet, it is the shadows of their past-- their past selves-- that loom large over them._

_She asks him once (never again though-- not another whisper of her name) if he would take her back._

_‘Who?’  
‘Jocelyn.’_

_She asks-- If the opportunity presents itself; if the stars align; or whatever greater power that holds their lives deem it salvageable. The little broken pieces of his existence, peppered with grief and anger but tempered by his daughter’s smile -- If these pieces would fit together; in the seams, the creases unfolded; would he take her back._

_“No,” he answers, whispers. Their legs tangled in her sheets._

_‘Even if it means getting Joanna back?’ she thinks, but doesn’t dare say into the silence. If she releases the thought, it’s there— hanging and daunting, like a grandfather clock ticking away their moments, ticking away their time._

_She realizes then, how selfish she can be._

\-----

“They all died.” She states it like a fact, not like an emotion.

“Yes, I know.” he answers; with a hint of repressed mocking, of damnation. It’s there in his voice— like so many other things she knows about him.

She looks at him then; tired, defeated, lost. A pleading look in her eyes no one can see, because no one bothers to look more closely. She stares at his face, his eyes cast downward, intent on his hands, on his tricorder, like he could fix everything, _fix her_ , but she can feel everything is unraveling, has been, long before; before all this, before the deaths---

“I’ve healed your broken ribs and the cut on your lip. Your bruises will be sore for a little while.”

She knows this of course, knows all the places in which she aches, inside and out. He says these things, these words, to fill the void.

She breathes in, breathes deep. Glancing around sickbay, she sees the white, the clean, the lines holding perfectly the structure-- unbroken, undisturbed, untainted. It strikes her unfamiliar, when, for the longest time all she could witness was dark, gray, smoke, dirt, red-- thick and matted, jagged edges of falling debris.

“You’d better get some rest.” he finishes. He looks at her expectantly, like rest is the most logical step for her to take, like breaking down, striking her fists in anger, crying, or screaming, is not something she’s allowed to do. Not here, not now.

She knows how much he fears her breaking, like a fragile china doll, but in truth she’s already so broken.

\-----

_‘Stop it Len.’  
‘What?’  
‘We’re supposed to be working.’  
‘I am working.’  
‘No, you’re looking at me like—‘  
‘Like what?’_

_Amusement taints his voice and she thinks that moments like these, when it’s so easy, so simple—a smile, a glance, a bow of the head, a blush, the intensity of his eyes—these moments, so sparse and so precious, to him, to her; makes all their history of hurt, of pain, of resentment, of anger, of guilt--- recede._

_He pulls her then, to him, to his heart, and for a few stolen moments, everything feels right._

\-----

The light burns her eyes; she turns it off, on, off, on-- an endless repetition. She sees the bodies, piled up, a labyrinth-- the images burned in her mind, behind her eyes. She still feels the dirt and blood on her skin, beneath her bones; can still smell the stench of decay, even after she scrubbed herself raw, her skin burning, seething.

She should know how to handle this; this condition she finds herself a prisoner of. She trained for this, for space, for voyage, for battle, for war, but it’s never the same; they never train you for death, for loss, for the inevitableness of it all, not of this magnitude. She scoffs at the thought that with our knowledge and the endless possibilities the universe possesses, there are still those who cannot cheat death.

She lies awake, counts the steady rhythm of her heart, one, two, three, — every count marks the faces of those who are gone, lost forever.

\-----

_In the dead of night, when everything is still and wondrous, they come together like this._

_She whispers his name, whimpers, pleading, longing. He does the same, when things get too much, when the hunger and yearning burns him inside out, and all he can see is her, all he wants to touch is her. She knows, knows, they are spiraling out of control, out of comfort, out of want. But she knows in the end this is what she needs, what they both need, to make the numbness ebb away._

_This is who they are; they move together, bend together like the waves; a kiss, a caress, hands clench and unclench, a hint of forever in their touch. It terrifies and confuses her sometimes, the way he easily surrenders to her touch._

_She wonders if he fears the same._

\-----

They come to see her, one by one. Nyota, Gaila, Janice, even Jim. They ask how she is, how she’s doing, and of course all she says (all she can ever say) is _she’s fine, that she’ll be okay_ , even if they all know she’s not, never will be the same. This job they do, this life they lead, takes so much from all of them, and sometimes gives too little back. It's times like these she wonders why they’re even out here, why the universe leads them out into its chasm, with the promise of the infinite, when in the end it only affirms their humanity.

They come to see her, one by one. The faces, the images. At night, when she’s too tired to fight, too exhausted to resist, she lets the images overwhelm her. She plays them over and over, like an endless reel, without an off button, a continuous torture, blotted and caked with blood, seeping, gushing. She tries to rein them in, the sounds, the screams; the fear that almost killed her, the explosions that took them all. 

Len comes, after everyone else.

He holds her as she shakes and shivers, but the tears never come.

\-----

_“I’m pregnant.”_

_“You-- What-- How-- “_

_“Seeing as you’re a doctor, Len, I assume you know the mechanics of this.”_

_He bursts into laughter. “Of course, but, I mean-- I’m gonna be-- We’re gonna have--“_

_“Are-- are you okay with this? About having a baby, I mean. I know we never talked about kids, hell we never really talked about—“_

_He reaches for her hand._

_“We’re gonna have a baby.” He says, softly. He smiles at her then, small but sincere._

_“Yeah, we are.” She squeezes his hand back and smiles with him._

\-----

She hears it, from a distance, a blast, an echo; but it is there, clear and distinct. Panic rises through her, a bitter taste in her mouth.

For a fleeting moment, she’s back in the warzone.

She drops the tray she’s holding, her breath catches in her throat and she pales. She looks around, distraught, confused, the sickbay walls doing nothing to dissuade her alarm. She’s shaking, gasping for air.

He’s at her side in an instant. “Chris? What happened? What’s wrong?” He places his hand on her shoulder, out of reassurance, out of familiarity.

She shakes his hand loose. “No, I’m all right. I just—I just need a moment.” She lifts her hand up, gestures for him to stay back.

He narrows his eyes at her, confused, helpless. “Chris, I think you should talk with Dr. Dunhill—“

She tries to even out her breathing. “No. I just—I just need a few minutes alone.” She stammers out. “Excuse me, Dr. McCoy.”

She leaves quickly, the sickbay doors closing behind her.

She thinks she hears him call out her name.

\-----

_‘What about Elizabeth?’  
‘Hmmm?’  
‘For a girl?’  
”Elizabeth McCoy-Chapel. I like it.’  
‘Hey wait a minute—‘  
‘It’s the 23rd Century, Doctor McCoy, women rule the cosmos.’  
‘Whatever you say, Lieutenant.’_

_Their laughter echoes in the silent room. Light trickles in and illuminates her face. He kisses her spine and holds her tighter than he ever dared._

\-----

Instead, she tries to drown the sorrows with alcohol. It burns her throat, bitter and hot; goes through her whole body, just as she wants.

She sobs after, angry and searing, clinging to Nyota.

Nyota doesn’t know what to say, and in truth, she’s grateful for the silence. She’s not sure what to say either.

*

She fills the gaps in between; the absence in which he left. He’s there, always, his body and countenance overbearing, overpowering. But it is only in physicality, in which his presence lingers, and she longs for his warmth, for his smile, for the ease they once settled into.

She hands him his pad, and lingers, just for a few moments.

“That’ll be all Nurse Chapel,” he says, like he has, a million times before.

There’s a certain deadness inside her she can’t shake.

\-----

_“I’m never going to leave you.”_

_“How do I know that? How can I be sure—“ she stops; and starts again. “You did it once, with—“_

_In an instant anger seizes hold of him:_

_“Don’t you dare! Don’t you even dare--!”_

_She sees it, in his eyes, deep; the rage, the pain._

_She retreats:_

_“I—I think it would be best if I slept in my quarters tonight.”_

\-----

She wonders, not for the first time, why she survived.

\-----

_She slips, once; and that’s all it took. She looks at her hands, at her body, and everything becomes red._

_*_

_“I lost it, Len. I lost the baby.”_

_She cries, cries, cries and cries._

_“Shhh. It’s okay sweetheart, it’s okay.” he says, engulfing her in his embrace, caressing her hair, her back, everything he can touch; trying to reassure her that it’s okay, that they’ll be okay._

_Even though they both know they’re far from it._

\-----

When she was younger, her mother gave her a book of fairy tales. A book with dragons and knights and princesses and castles and queens and kings; fighting against the evil, the tyrants, the oppressors--- unyielding, untrue.

 _This is what they do_ , she realizes. They fight the darkness, try to understand the unknown. Not with swords nor armors; they’re not princesses, kings nor knights; they have only weapons, words, ships, prime directives.

But with this journey in time and space, more often than not, you lose a part of yourself. Sometimes you get it back—tattered and torn, barely unrecognizable-- but it is yours. You try to piece it back together, try to find the corner from which it fell, so delicate, so fragile; and more often than not, it never quite fits the same way.

She barely knows how to do this anymore, especially without him to pull her out when the darkness swallows her whole.

\-----

_Before:_

Blood on her hands— literally; figuratively. She presses her palm on the wound, trying, _willing_ it to stop bleeding. She has nothing, only her hands, and she feels so utterly helpless.

“I don’t want to die.” The boy-- barely out of the academy-- looks up at her, tears mingling with blood. His face, _god his face_ ; she’ll never forget it.

“Shhh, Ensign Rawlins. Don’t talk, save your strength. They’re coming, they’re coming.”

He dies just as she hears the whir of the ship.

_After:_

She yells. He yells. But this time, _it’s different_.

“Stop yelling at me like it’s my fault!”

“What? I—I don’t—“

“Ever since I lost the baby, you look at me like _everything_ is my fault!”  

The anger, it festers, lingers, deep and unrelenting, buries itself inside.

She continues. “I tried, Len. I tried to save _it_ , I tried to save _them_ , but I was just—I couldn’t—there was so much blood—“

“Oh sweetheart. Oh god, Chris. No, no, no, no.”

He advances, catches her as she falls; just as the sobs wrack her body.

“I’m so sorry darling. I just, I wasn’t---“ He inhales, caresses her back.

They crumble to the floor.

“I should have been there. I should have-- I just-- I should have been there. And I’m so sorry I wasn’t. If I was, you never would have lost the baby. You never would have been there alone.”

She understands it now, she thinks. The anger she sees, the blame; it’s _his_. He blames himself, for all of it.

She clings to him tighter.

*

After _(after the anger subsides, after the deaths, after the guilt, after the blame, just after)_ , they start over.

\-----

_She knows now that what she feels, he feels it too. And that is enough._

 

\- fin -

 


End file.
